


The Secret Room

by TheOneWhomIsNotStraight



Category: Batman - Fandom
Genre: Batcave, Batman - Freeform, Dead Parents, Gen, Humor, Kinky, Pre batman, Sex Swing, Young Bruce Wayne, dildo, sex dungeon, strap on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneWhomIsNotStraight/pseuds/TheOneWhomIsNotStraight
Summary: Bruce finds out what the Batcave was used for before Batman.
Relationships: Alfred Dafd, Young Bruce - Relationship
Kudos: 3





	The Secret Room

**Author's Note:**

> :)

It was so lonely at night. This massive house filled with nothing but furniture, a butler, and a sad, grieving little orphan. Bruce spent most of his days prancing around the house, staring into walls, and occasionally sleeping, but not much. Most nights were filled with the quiet sobs of a young boy plagued by nightmares. It was his fault. God forbid he just stuck through the rest of the production. Two shots, that was all it took. Two ear shattering bangs and his entire life was changed forever. All for some money, stupid fucking paper that means absolutely nothing. Though Thomas Wayne a Capitalist true and true, Martha was skeptical of the agenda, and sometimes was caught spouting off her ideas towards Alfred.   
It was a rainy Saturday. Alfred had given the young master a day off to explore some of the new books picked out from the never ending shelves of the Wayne library. Of course, Bruce had ignored the choices, abandoning them on the desk he rarely used, only collecting dust. Bruce had turned the corner off of the living room, and came face to face with a picture of his father. Lining the walls was an array of professionally taken pictures of all the Waynes, including Bruce. Their frames were hand crafted, one of a kind antique Martha Wayne designed herself. From what Bruce remembered, they were worth more than the ring on her finger and drove Thomas up the wall. They fought for days until finally Thomas caved, concluding the issue with a simple, “They’re quite lovely, Martha.”  
Lost in the photos, Bruce did not notice the large stray cat sitting on the window sill, mere feet from his face. Suddenly, a large crack of lightening snapped down at the earth, making a boom loud enough to shake the Gods. The cat arched its back, startling in the storm and thus startling Bruce. He yelped and stumbled back in surprise, his socks entangling in his pants which caused him to lose his balance, his back slamming harshly into the grandfather clock behind him. Falling to the floor in front of it, he caught his breath, his heart racing from the sudden scare. Then, before his very eyes, the clock moved, opening a doorway that lead to a pitch black tunnel. Picking himself up, Bruce hesitated. A secret doorway? What in the world would his father need a secret doorway for? What was Thomas hiding? The eight-year-old clambered shakily to the entrance, suspicious of what he may find as he ducked his head through,, eyeing the walls. It was strange, but… It smelled wonderful. Like Vanilla and fresh cedar. Slowly, Bruce descended the stairs, one foot at a time making sure not to slip. Once he reached the bottom, it was almost pitch black mind the small window left open by the clock. Walking slowly, Bruces eyes adjusted. He looked around, his gaze traveling around the massive structure, landing on a small keypad to his left. He looked it over, his eyes still adjusting to the dark, but was able to just make out the “on” switch. Flipping it, an array of lights lit up around him, and he found himself surrounded by a multitude of fancy vehicles. Bruce had never knew his father collected cars. Of course, there was the abundance of fancy sports cars and expensive models in the family garage, but these cars…. They were priceless, ranging from fancy foreign models, to bulky American made. His collection must have been worth well over a million dollars. Bruce marbled at them, walking through each platform and admiring the designer seats and shiny paint. His eyes landed softly on a black sports vehicle to his left, it’s hood low to the ground. Bruce bet that one was fast.   
Softly, he padded along the hall, ogling the cars, but stopped short once he reached the end. There was a door. A large, bronze door with a lion head knocker, its mouth open and snarling. Curious, the boy approached, grasping the handle and twisting. It was unlocked.  
Pushing open the heavy door, Bruce emerged. It was dark, pitch black in fact, not even the light from the door penetrating the abyss. Bruce stepped in cautiously and hung to the walls, afraid of losing himself to the endless night of the room. Suddenly, the bronze door slammed shut, trenching Bruce in darkness and startling him back. His leg slammed into something hard, just above his knee, and sent him to the floor. His hand flew outworks and hit what felt like a table and pulled on it, trying not to lose his balance but failing miserably as the table tumbled with him. On the floor, he ached, his knee forming quite a bruise. He pushed himself up and sat cross legged in the pitch darkness, afraid. What if Alfred never found him? What if he couldn’t get out? What if there was something in here with him. Slowly, he padded around himself on the floor, the tile cold under his hands. His hand hit something just as he was getting ready to pull away and rolled closer to him. He touched it. It was soft, squishy even. He felt along it until he reached the end. All at once he realized what his hand was upon, and he let out a ear splitting shriek.. In a flash the lights came on and laced a pink tinted glow over his surroundings. He was in a massive room. Looking down at his hand, he through the item, standing abruptly and spinning around. All around him was materials of nightmares. Rows of balls on string, leather masks and collars, large paddles and in the center of it all was a swing, chained to the ceiling for support, straps sitting at where ones arms would be. Bruce did not think those straps were for arms, though. Off to the side was a small bedroom, no walls separating each room. To the right of the bed was a large marble island adorned with racks of bottles. Liquor and wine, expensive champaign, moonshine, the likes. Bruce screamed once again, running and banging on the bronze door, his screams useless but to tire him. Spinning back around, he hadn’t noticed the cherry on top of the cake. A large lifelike silicone ding-dong, fit with a large pair of testicles and hip straps. That, laying on the ground where Bruce had thrown it, was a monster that would haunt him forever.  
Finally, the door opened, and Bruce sprinted out of the garage, up the stairs and out of the clock, not even bothering to shut off the lights. Slowly, he stepped away from the closing door and back down the hallway. Into the kitchen he went where Alfred was just finishing preparing his lunch. As he ate his sandwich and soup, he decided he could never, ever tell a soul about the secret room. Not even Alfred.


End file.
